White Blank Page
by HikaruOngaku
Summary: Weeks after a night of escapades Hermione can't even remember, she comes to face the inevitable truth, Ron isn't ready for the responsibility brought upon by their actions. The Gryffindor finds solace in a rundown book shop that Luna had dropped onto her lap, and an unexpected customer who happened to traipse over the threshold.
1. Prologue

_**Hi all! Thanks for even showing interest in this, I do truly, truly appreciate it. If you feel so inclined to do so, a review would seriously make me ecstatic. A simple rating 1-10 is all I need, I swear. Anyway, here it is, a change in my normal fanfiction tastes, well, the tastes that I let everyone else see. Yup, okay, here we go!**_

_/_

_Hermione,_

_ We've been through a lot, and a lot has happened between us._

_But I can't do this, I'm sorry, but I'm not ready for this in my life._

_Ron_

The wrinkled parchment fell to the floor, as did the witch, who sank down the counter until she

sat crumpled on the kitchen tiles.

He'd abandoned her without warning, abandoned _them. _Everything was crumbling, her worst fears coming to haunt her in one mistake. She was supposed to be working with the Ministry, making a name for herself. A name other than, "The Brightest Witch of Her Age".

It was getting hard to breathe now as reality came crashing closer, her head spinning as she fought back sobs.

When she'd first found out he was so calm, and she'd expected a complete fit, it was too strange. He'd reassured her that everything would be all right, that if she wanted to he'd find a safe way to dispose of _it. _The Wizarding World had a much tunneled view on abortions, and by tunneled, Hermione meant _forbidden. _That being said, as with most everything, it could be done.

She brought a shaking hand to her still flat abdomen, well, predominantly flat. Disturbingly enough, Hermione couldn't even remember most of that night. As it was with every other weekend, Ginny and Harry, and all the rest of them were out celebrating the end of the War. Wherever Harry was on a Friday, was where the crowd would be, without a doubt. Huge, billowing fireworks plumed through the streets and over the shops of Hogsmeade, fizzy drinks made to tickle your tummy were practically free.

All of this was merely a charade, Hermione knew, because when Sunday came, bringing the new week with it, body counts continued to escalate, more funerals to attend, so much black. Her entire wardrobe had been black for nearly two months after the end of the War. She refused to take part in the "merriment". It was all a ploy to momentarily forget the tragedy. To ignore.

This night had different though, this night she had decided to Apparate to Hogsmeade and visit Madame Rosmerta, maybe even catch a glimpse of McGonagall. Certainly not to partake in as many rounds of Firewhiskey as she could, mixing so many different alcohols she could barely walk, let alone coherently consent to sex. Yet Ronald had gone ahead, not that he was any better off than she was, for all she knew, he remembered less than she did.

It was only when she woke up beside him, his shirt flung haphazardly across the room, her bra nowhere to be found, that she realized what had happened. She was mortified. Her first time and she hadn't even been there to witness the blessed event. Blessed. Ha.

Now, she was alone with a blob baking in her womb.

It didn't even have a pulse yet as far as she knew.

"Oh God," her head was throbbing, she was completely nauseated, with a pitiful groan she pulled herself to her feet, hands weakly grasping the edge of the counter, she managed to scramble up and hold herself over the sink.

Then came the vomit, sick poured out of her in seemingly endless wretches of her stomach. It seemed like everything she had eaten in the past week was coming back to haunt her.

That was how Luna found her, bracing herself over the kitchen sink as she wiped her mouth with her dish rag.

"Hermione?" the Gryffindor had heard the familiar _pop _of someone Apparating, and she had honestly hoped it was Ron, but she knew better.

"Hey, Luna," she said greeted her guest weakly before spitting into the basin. How could her stomach not be empty?

Managing to straighten up, her back aching from being bent over for so long, she smiled weakly; it was fake, so obviously fake that she grimaced immediately afterward, as did Luna.

She was emotionally, physically, mentally drained. There was nothing left.

"Where's Ron?" Luna asked, completely clueless, Hermione couldn't help but laugh, albeit a bit hysterically.

When she'd finally recovered, her eyes going in and out of focus as she became a bit light-headed, she replied, "'dunno." Then, she rose up her index finger, turned around, and threw up again, this time all that was left was stomach acid, her esophagus burning from the trail it left. Before turning and shuffling slowly to the uneven kitchen table, she spit into the sink again and rinsed her mouth out with tap water.

As she sat down she simply lowered her head to the table, resting her forehead on the surface. A very guttural and hoarse groan rumbled up and out of her mouth.

"You mean he's gone, he left you?" Luna asked, she already knew, of course she did, and she was a bloody Ravenclaw. How could she _not _know?

Of course, Hermione still had to drop the bombshell; she waited as she listened to Luna taking her seat opposite the Gryffindor.

"Left _us_," her voice was muffled and she tried to focus on not vomiting again instead of Luna's sudden intake of breath.

The sudden sharp squeak of wood against the tile floor startled Hermione, and she peeked up at Luna who was now retreating down the hallway toward the bathroom, folding her arms, Hermione didn't even bother questioning the eccentric woman.


	2. The Artist District

Hermione's morning had brightened considerably; the only friend she had left had taken her under her eccentric wing, guiding her through the more interesting parts of Diagon Alley. Almost every person she saw had the latest publication of _The Quibbler _tucked under their arm, or some other indicator that they preferred to walk to the beat of a different drum. Every now and then as Luna and Hermione continued down the sidewalks of Diagon Alley's "Artist District", as its in inhabitants so fondly referred to it, groups of various wizards and witches would storm towards them in swarms. Some would greet the duo warmly as if meeting with old friends, asking if they remembered them from Hogwarts, as they had also fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. Occasionally one of them would recognise an old classmate, a small conversation firing up. Others would run up seemingly speechless by such a golden celebrity sighting.

Despite the almost nonstop attention, Hermione was feeling far from important or worth gawking at, sure, she had done a few (what appeared to be) brilliant things, but surely anyone else under the same pressure would have come to similar conclusions. At least, this is what Hermione often convinced herself of, somehow she always managed to remind herself that she wasn't special, nor exceptionally intelligent, talented, or good-looking. Especially under her current circumstances, carrying Ronald Bilius Weasley's child and living in a flat that wasn't really hers, but his, and she was sure that he would return eventually. She also knew he didn't have the heart to kick her out; they had been friends for nearly eight years, after all, and apparently had sex.

"So, where exactly are we going?" Hermione asked, not that she minded wandering the streets without any idea where she was headed. It felt nice to not have complete control over everything, which was almost too ironic, seeing that her life had spiraled completely out of her control.

"Right," Luna paused as they took a few more steps, "here."

Hermione tilted her head to the side slightly, as if it would somehow make the building look any less depressing. Compared to all the other shops and restaurants, this sad excuse for a bookshop would have been easy to miss. Nestled between the other buildings on the block, it seemed set back from the line of storefronts, as if it had been shoved in there as an afterthought, but as Hermione rose her head to take in the rest of the building, she saw that it rose higher than the others. Odd. Maybe even intriguing. It looked like it painted various colours over the years, until after a period of neglect, the peeling layers came to reveal the original brownstone.

"Why here?" Hermione finally replied, her heart going out to the sad building. If the shop could speak and tell its stories, the Gryffindor was sure she could sympathise with it.

Stepping forward to the scratched and chipped wooden door, Luna unlocked it with a Muggle key; most of the buildings in Diagon Alley were opened with complex wards created by the owner's. Upon entering, Hermione was convinced that maybe it had once been a beautiful and spacious shop, not yet crowded with books, chairs, shelves that didn't match and work desks. The two front windows by the door shed strips of light into the dark shop, dust motes floating lazily through the air that the light hit, but they were grimy and covered with dirt, the curtains eaten by moths and probably other magical creatures. She didn't bother asking Luna, she figured the Ravenclaw's answer would be Nargles.

The only thing Hermione could think about now was books. Not even in Hogwarts' grand library had Hermione thought she'd seen so many books, especially not in such disarray. Small paths had been created by pushing towers of piled books of all sizes out of the way. Although she wasn't planning on testing this theory, the Gryffindor was sure that the paths were so narrow she couldn't spread her arms out much past her shoulders. With an almost dangerous curiosity, she wondered if the books were being held up and balanced by old, faulty charms; because there was no way that so many books of different sizes placed at different angles could stay in place by themselves.

Clearing her throat as her gaze continued down a narrow hallway also lined with books, she finally spoke, only to repeat herself, "Why here?"

Luna's tinkling laugh came as a surprise to Hermione, and she was a bit rattled by it. An ulterior motive.

"It's obvious that you need something to keep you occupied while you work through this," her smile was radiant, and it was clear the Ravenclaw was proud of herself, despite any blatant misgivings Hermione was having.

"Are you saying that this is mine?" Hermione ran gentle fingers over the round keys of an old, Muggle typewriter that sat on one of the desks.

Luna held out the black key.

/

Draco had woken up – once again – in a bed that wasn't his. Slowly, achingly slow, the silent Slytherin managed to wriggle his way out of the hard bed, first having to carefully remove a stray arm that had been draped across his bare chest. This routine was engraved in his mind, first, he got up without waking up the girl beside him, and second he collected his clothing, making sure everything he'd had the night before was still there. Thirdly, and most importantly, he procured his wand. Last, he made his escape, _always _Apparating. That was the most important part. No one could see his negligent behaviour, his father in Azkaban, his mother barely recovering from a bout of depression and something else that no one would explain to Draco. The last thing the Malfoy family needed was to worry about the papers picking up on their heir's choice of stress relief.

"Mm, leaving already?" the blonde who's bed (and body) he had commandeered the night before stretched her arms above her head as she purred out the words. Before she rolled over to face him, he quickly ducked down, as if he were searching for something, and muttered a few Disillusionment charms on his appearance. When he righted himself, he had strawberry blonde hair and green eyes; he hoped that would be enough to deter the heavily hungover witch.

Keeping his face from directly facing her, he nodded, "Yeah," the charm had also distorted his voice, thankfully, because on numerous occasions that had caused more than a bit of confusion as he tried to escape. Being a chauvinistic pig was risky work.

He kept that thought in mind as he ducked into what he assumed was the bathroom.

"That's the closet, babe," her voice drawled, and he could tell there was a hint of a Scottish accent there. Generally speaking, he was thoroughly put off by the Scots thick accents; he wondered what had attracted him to her the previous night. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he concentrated on his penthouse apartment and quickly Disapparated from an undoubtedly uncomfortable situation.

Once he was back in the comfort of his apartment, which took up the entire seventh floor of a well-to-do complex smack in the middle of London, Draco stripped down completely and headed straight for the bathroom, which was a completely separate entity from the shower. He retrieved a towel from the cabinet and hurried into the shower room, which was made completely of stone, much like the flagstones of Hogwarts.

He loved this shower, but he also loathed it, because every time he came into it, it inevitably reminded him of his years spent at Hogwarts. The advantages and opportunities that could he have easily been presented with were squandered by his rushed entry into the Dark Lord's prized circle of puppets.

"Bloody hell," he ruffled the back of his hair, which he could feel turning back to his natural colour, it was a tingling sensation, and it mingled unpleasantly with the pounding headache he could feel sneaking up on him.

/

Hermione invested all of her time and energy into the run-down bookstore. She'd always been like this, practically obsessing over a project, her quirk tended to be well contained during her time at Hogwarts because of her heavy work load.

The fall weather had begun to take on the chill of winter, and it had taken a lot of willpower on Hermione's part to continue working despite the cold. Taking a break from manually reassembling a few more broken typewriters she'd found underneath an oak work desk, the Gryffindor settled into the plush armchair she'd discovered nestled in the corner of one of the many back rooms and began to read one of the (what seemed like) hundreds of Magic-Baby books. Designed to help witches just like her, those inexperienced with caring for magical infants, these books took up two entire shelves; and she was sure there were more hoarded in some undiscovered room.

That, in all reality, was how she spent most of her days, only being able to sort one room filled to brim with books – as they all were – because even such a menial sounding task was overwhelming for the usually workaholic Gryffindor. She simply couldn't understand where all of the books had come from in the first place, some precious First Editions, and others were found in an abundance of multiples. She was drowning in this sea of books.

_Infants born with magical abilities are often likely to begin showing magical talent somewhere around their first birthday._

Eyebrows furrowing, Hermione quickly flipped to the front cover, her thumb keeping her place. All her life, her parents had never mentioned any magical phenomenon from Hermione until she was a few years shy of eleven.

_PREGNANT WITH A PERFECT PUREBLOOD_

Hermione scoffed with diluted agitation and carelessly tossed the book onto the chipped, wooden desk.

Back to work.

(ONE MONTH LATER)

"Merlin, this place looks amazing!" Luna exclaimed, almost more to herself than to Hermione. The blonde tilted her head back to take in the ceiling which Hermione had charmed so it was about five feet taller, as to fit in bigger bookshelves, and thus, more books. The bookshop was no longer a hideous disaster, but a testament to Hermione's uncanny ability to distract herself from almost anything and turn her project into a perfect freckle on the nose of Diagon Alley's Artist District.

"C'mon, I'll give you the grand tour," Hermione grasped her friend's hand, guiding her to the other rooms, which by now, were almost completely organised by genre.

A grand tour it was, Luna wandering behind a modest Hermione in awe of the witch before her. Just over a month ago Luna had barely managed to coax out the truth of Hermione's pregnancy, had watched the usually headstrong Gryffindor crumble into a broken heap. Now, it seemed she was slowly building herself back up, but Luna couldn't be sure, this could all be a façade. She was satisfied nonetheless with the progress that had been made.

Each room had been divided into different genres, and within each umbrella genre were subgenres, and somehow, Hermione had found a way to manage all of the chaos. Luna was astonished, but in another way, not surprised at all, because over the few years Luna had known Hermione, she'd always seemed comfortable in the library at Hogwarts, among the books, disappearing between the shelves.

/

The Slytherin had become accustomed to the stares and occasional snarls he received from those whom he passed. This of course, only increased his desperate want to remain hidden from public view, only going out when absolutely necessary. He much preferred the Floo Network or Apparation to places he often frequented, where people weren't surprised that a Malfoy was out where they were vulnerable.

Today he was out, for the first time in… Four weeks and four days.

Approximately.

An experiment in his ability to control himself. The threat of him sicking Death Eaters on whoever looked at him the wrong way no longer stood, he was fresh prey to those who had always hated him. Now, he had nothing except for the money he was destined to receive at the death of his parents.

Money and a shitty last name. Who would want to be a Malfoy?

Draco certainly didn't.

Of course, no one else could know this, he had to hold his head high, keep his eyes down, and he had a reputation to keep.

Without consciously doing so, he had entered the Artist District of Diagon Alley, a newly developed orgy of witches and wizards his age who had decided that everything set in place by the older generations of wizards was complete bollocks. In some ways, he felt an odd desire to become immersed in this movement, to step out of the darkness. The same feeling had washed over him the moment he showed his true alliance with Potter and his lively gang of misfits. The way they had simply swallowed him into the crowd, gently nudging him until he had known he was safe.

He grunted to himself, a let his head drop back to take in the sky, which was beginning to swirl into a dreary shade of grey.

_Oh, how lovely Mr. Malfoy, the way you wax poetry, _he taunted himself apathetically. Just then, a sharp raindrop plopped purposely on the bridge of his nose.

"Bugger," he muttered, beginning his search for a building he'd be comfortable slipping into for a while as he avoided the impending autumn storm. Although many wizards tended to disregard the small lesson learned while being taught to Apparate, Draco preferred not risking being splinched because of a bloody storm.

It was just then that his eyes happened to fall upon the perfect hideaway building. Unassuming, ugly even. As he pulled the door open, it stuck a bit and he had tug harder than expected, upon entering he was overtaken by the aroma of old books, not quite vanilla, but close enough to sooth his headache.

He'd never noticed the building, yet it seemed old in architecture, and Draco hadn't quite figured out what it was for. Books neatly collected on mismatched bookcases, but no prices to be found, no sign of bookkeeping. It was far too organised to be a mere storage sight. As much as he hated to admit it, he was intrigued.

Settling into a plush armchair that nearly sucked him in, he lit a few lamps and set to work on a book he'd randomly grabbed from a shelf. Sod it, so what if he was intruding? It was raining and the door was unlocked.

Open invitation.

/

Hermione had decided to treat herself to pizza, a Muggle delicacy only recently reintroduced to the magical masses, of course, the Artist District had embraced the greasy perfection. It was one of her weaknesses, and given the option of only being able to eat one thing for the rest of her life, pizza was definitely lingering somewhere at the top of her shortlist.

A recently opened "My Patronus is Pizza" sat only a few short blocks from Hermione's newly acquired bookshop, and she'd be damned if a spot of rain was going to stop her from stuffing her gob.

"How can I help you?" Hermione rocked back on her heels, her hand automatically flitting to her stomach, as she read over the floating menu.

"Just a slice of cheese pizza, please?" she held in a disappointed groan as her stomach began doing those nauseating somersaults, she hadn't even eaten yet and her body was acting up.

A large slice of delicious smelling pizza in hand, Hermione settled onto a bar stool that sat beside a counter that stretched across the long front window. She watched passing shoppers, some laden down with bags, as the rain continued to fall in a heavy downpour.

Simply put, she didn't feel well, she hadn't felt well for the past month, this baby, this _blob _that was going to begin to slowly take over her life, was already starting to control her body in small increments. At this point in her pregnancy she knew she couldn't blame the baby, but it was hard not to when every time she ate something it made a treacherous journey back up.

She shook her head, she needed to not think about vomiting right now, she was trying to enjoy her lunch.

/

** Yes, I did change the title of this fic, and unfortunately, the title is probably subject to change again as I continue with it. **

** Reviews would seriously make me inexplicably happier!**

** Thanks for reading - Lindsey**


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